


cooperative luck on the path back

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Cross-Generation Relationship, First Meetings, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6836812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The instinct to argue kicks in, an avalanche of words readying themselves to tumble out of his mouth. Thankfully, his good sense overrides the impulse. It wouldn’t move Leia in any case. But everything he knows about Poe Dameron—which isn’t much, if he’s being honest, save the same tales you hear about all hot-shot pilots—suggests he’s dedicated to the cause and empathetic in the extreme. You don’t burn your career to the ground out of anything but the highest sense of duty. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t need Leia to put pressure on him to agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cooperative luck on the path back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [primeideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/gifts).



“Excuse me?” Lando asks, pacing the front of the classroom—and Force, who’d have ever thought he’d end up here? A _teacher_. Of all the Sith-damned things in the universe he could’ve ended up being—“You want to use a _what_ to break a TIE fighter’s lock on your ship?” His eyes narrow as he stares at the student sitting in the front row. A cocky kid, Corellian from the sound of it, and far too self-absorbed for his own good. His head turns this way and that, his eyes eager for the approval of the rest of his cohort. Too bad he won’t stop preening long enough to give the time of day to the one individual here whose opinion matters.

His audience, thankfully, only squirms in their seats, correctly interpreting Lando’s tone as one of disapproval. “No, no, no,” he adds, to drive the point home for the young man, clasping his hands together in supplication. “Folks, don’t listen to your friend here unless you want—”

Lando’s chronometer trills. In times past, he’d have ignored it. Hell, in times past it wouldn’t have troubled him to begin with. But now that he’s an instructor he knows the true power of beeping alarms.

No amount of discipline can stop a group of wet behind the ears cadets from fidgeting the minute that sound rings out. His eyebrow arches as he waits, ready to descend upon the first person to find the courage to reach for their bag first. None do, but Lando reads every twitch in every muscle on every face and hand and leg in the room. They all want out. But not enough to risk Lando’s displeasure.

Good.

All the same, Lando finds more and more that he can’t blame ‘em. He’d like out, too. But someone’s gotta train these kids up. And considering how thoroughly Leia had courted _most_ of the best to her cause even before the Hosnian massacre, it had fallen to Lando to do his part. And the parts of far too many others. Others who aren’t anything close to the best.

_What are they teaching these kids out there in the planetary academies?_

_They’re overworked_ , another part of his mind supplies, urging fairness, _probably got more people signing up than they know what to do with. It’s not all on them._

“Unless you _want_ to be blown apart and become so much stardust, don’t do as Mr. Leoth suggests. Juking will do the same job without making your enemy’s job easier for them. Unless you’re L’ulo himself reincarnated—which you’re not, because the last time I checked he’s not dead—don’t try it.” Lando narrows his eyes. “Especially not in space.”

“Poe Dameron did it,” Leoth replies, arms crossed, chin raised. Hell flares behind his eyes.

_Oh,_ Lando thinks, sarcastic, _kid, you got me._

Laughter catches in Lando’s throat at this particularly incompetent and obvious display of defiance. In return, Lando offers a grin, a thoroughly condescending one at that. _The Republic Navy doesn’t need you_. _I hope you know that_. Speaking, though, to the room at large, he says, “What Poe Dameron does and what you should do aren’t even in the same sector of the galaxy. Do _not_ do what Poe Dameron does. In fact, forget all about Poe Dameron. It’ll be easier that way.” _And safer_.

His students, all except Leoth, lean forward, the time forgotten at the invocation of _the_ Poe Dameron. Leoth, on the other hand, glowers at his lap, fists clenched against his thighs. Oh well. That’s what he gets for trying to compare himself to legends in the making.

“I mean it.,” Lando continues, gesturing toward the door. “And with that, you all might want to get moving. You’re already late for your next seminar.” His tone startles at least half of the class into action immediately, breaking Dameron’s spell. They snatch up their bags and launch themselves toward the door. The rest linger, peering at Leoth, and only remove themselves from the room once they’ve stretched the very act of doing so to its breaking point. They don’t want to miss anything. Sharp with feigned disinterest, Leoth pushes himself to his feet and turns toward the exit with crisp precision.

If he leaves his stuff behind, Lando doesn’t notice it. Not until it’s far, far too late for him to do anything about it, the door’s security lock engaging as Lando strolls out, too, the last to leave—as always.

If he engages secondary security measures—usually only enacted during finals weeks and special sessions—well, it would have been a slip of the hand, wouldn’t it? The option chosen accidentally. A thread of guilt, almost innocent in its simplicity, weaves its way through his thoughts, easily assuaged by the promise of a gallant apology. _Make sure you do something nice for the person forced to open that door for him, huh, old man?_

Leoth’s nerve, his audacity, clings to Lando’s thoughts. And his arrogance baffles. He’s hardly got the marks to justify it.

_Poe Dameron did it. Like that means anything. It’d be like saying you could run a marathon because you saw Klethira Sivvs do it in a holovid once._

Hell, Lando’s pretty sure he wouldn’t try more than half the things Dameron’s purported to have done—and he’s the guy who flew the _Millennium Falcon_ through a Death Star. If Lando’s skeptical, then Leoth hasn’t got a chance.

Which is fine. Not everyone needs to be Poe Dameron to do some good in the galaxy.

Too bad Leoth won’t see it that way.

Or maybe not. Frankly, if Leoth washed out due to ridiculous expectations… that’d be for the best. At least he won’t end up dead because of his inflated ego.

*

“Give me Leoth’s HUD, if you can,” Lando asks, pacing behind the flight sim tech’s chair. It takes him a moment to recall her name, but recall it he does. Though only a handful of individuals work the sim labs, he doesn’t come down this way often enough to make their acquaintances properly. An oversight he never would have allowed himself in the past. It pleases him, at least, that he hasn’t completely lost his touch. “Lieutenant Hennse, isn’t it?”

Her eyes flick toward his, widen the way anyone’s does when they’ve been caught. She swallows and nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he replies, pointing at the screen, swallowing back the friendly urge to insist she call him Lando instead. Informality during the Rebellion had been one thing. A military institution in the heart of Republic space? That’s another thing entirely. “At your leisure.”

Darting her hand out, she flips a switch, giving Lando the same feed Leoth is looking at on the other side of a pane of glass. He’s sitting in a modified X-wing, one balanced on columns that raise and lower to approximate the movement he’d feel during a real dogfight. But unlike for Leoth, the image Lando sees is flattened, the holo blued. Lines wiggle up and down the projection, all the finer details lost. Leoth’s picture is clearer, but from the looks of it, he’s not making much use of that clarity.

Frowning, Lando says, “Your equipment come with an extrapolation program?”

“Yes, sir.”

The projection flickers and reasserts itself, even grainier and lined than before. But instead of looking at a field full of TIE Fighters, he’s got the TIE Fighters—and Leoth’s X-wing—going at it in miniature in front of him. The X-wing keeps whizzing in and out of the projector’s range, but before a minute’s up, he’s seen all he needs to. Hennse peeks at the display, curious, but darts her eyes back to her console almost immediately. “How much longer does he have on the clock?”

“About ten minutes, sir.”

Lando ought to end this farce; it’s doing none of them any good, not even Leoth—except perhaps in fulfilling his logged hours requirements. Instead, he sighs. “Let him finish,” he says, scrubbing at his chin. Walking toward the door, he murmurs a thank you and a farewell to Hennse, retrieves and flashes his identification chit at the reader installed next to the lock. The door slides open, but before he takes more than a step, he adds, “See about calling me a few programmers, would you, Lieutenant? It’s about time we did some upgrades on the enemy ships’ AI.”

“Sir,” she says, sharp, her hand flying to the comm hooked around her ear. Even before the door shuts behind him, he can hear her repeating his request in a barking tone. He appreciates her verve—at least someone around here has some—but he still leaves with the impression that the Republic has no idea what it’s doing or why. Maybe no one cares. Or maybe everyone is still so overwhelmed after what happened to the Hosnian system. Lando doesn’t know. And he’s not sure he cares. There’s no excuse for this.

_Those sims are running scenarios that were out of date back when_ I _was doing all the flying and shooting._

Unbelievable.

He’s gonna need some help. A lot of it. And Leoth, for maybe the first time in the history of his acquaintance with Lando, proves himself to be of use. Not that Lando ever intends to tell him about it.

But Lando can’t lie and say Leoth doesn’t inspire the turn his thoughts take in trying to solve the problem with the simulations.

If he knows his odds at all, the next bit is going to be the hardest part.

*

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Lando grins his widest grin, cheeks aching with pleasure at one of his oldest friends. He doesn’t often have an excuse to contact her—not that he _needs_ one exactly, but setting up a secure, disposable comm channel isn’t the easiest of prospects, especially when answering questions about that kind of security requirements is entirely out of the question—but when he does… “Leia, it’s good to see you. You’re looking better than ever.”

She scoffs and shakes her head, tight-lipped. But though she frowns, the corner of her mouth quirks just so. Just enough to know that Leia’s not exactly annoyed to hear from him. She’s lost so much—things Lando doesn’t let himself wonder too much about, things he doesn’t let himself wish he’d been around to prevent—but she still has her dry humor, tempered though it might be by the rough roll the dice has made of her life. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Lando’s hand flutters toward his chest, pressing against his sternum in self-defense. _You wound me_. “I need a favor is all.”

“You know, I wouldn’t have guessed that.” She crossed her arms. “I’m a busy woman. That happens when you’re stuck on a planet on the ass end of the galactic spiral instead of making a fine, respectable go of it in the Core.” Her tone remains warm, but the words…

The words hit just a little too close to where he lives. Figuratively. And a little bit literally, too.

“Leia…” He doesn’t like the way his voice goes soft with concern, a little guilty. He hasn’t done anything wrong. And what he’s doing now is important. But he can’t _lie_ (always with the lying) and say he hasn’t thought the same thing—from time to time. No doubt he could do just as much good on a planet on the ass end of the galactic spiral. He can do good anywhere. “They need help out here, too.” Head tilting down, he looks up at her from beneath his brow. _The Hosnian massacre wouldn’t have happened if they didn’t_.

_Debatable,_ her unimpressed frown seems to say in reply, this time a genuine expression of displeasure. “ _I_ need help,” she says instead. She opens her mouth to say more, screws her face up instead, remaining silent. They’ve had this argument a time or two in their lives. And she knows it.

“Thank you,” he says, relieved they won’t have to rehash it once again.

“What do you need, Lando?” Her voice, rough and not having any of it, takes on that charmingly gruff quality he so admires.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“When did I ever?” She shakes her head, tutting. “Just—rip the bacta patch off. It can’t be that bad.”

If Lando takes a steadying breath before answering, no one else has to know about it. “I need to borrow Commander Dameron.”

“What? Are you—” Realizing her voice might’ve gotten a little loud, she quiets, leans toward her holoprojector. Her surprise curdles into a sickly realization. “—you’re not kidding.”

“Nope!” he says, feigning cheer, really pouring it on in the hopes of distracting her from the gravity of his request.

“I can’t just—he’s in charge of my entire compliment of pilots.” Looking away, she swallows. “Besides, I don’t think the Republic Navy would look too kindly on him roaming the halls of one of their precious training facilities.”

“I don’t care. Their precious training facilities are behind the times. They’re setting these kids up for failure.”

“If you know that already, why do you need him?”

“Because I haven’t flown a mission against the enemy pretty much since these training facilities were relevant. He has more and better experience than pretty much anyone else in the galaxy, wouldn’t you say?”

Leia’s head tips in acknowledgment. A good sign. If he’s gotten her to concede that much…

“I just need him for a week or two.” He lifts his hands, clasping them together in a feigned display of supplication. “Just to give the programmers something real to work with while they’re redesigning the simulations.”

“Uh huh.” Dubious, she plucks at her lower lip. “Did you even get permission for this scheme of yours?”

“Hey, now. That’s unnecessary slander. Just who do you take me for?”

Leia snorts, turns her head and nods, mouthing something at someone just out of range. “All right, Calrissian. I’m giving Poe the option to help you, but only if he feels comfortable leaving the base—including travel time. If he doesn’t want to, I’m not going to order him to. And he gets two weeks and not a minute more.”

The instinct to argue kicks in, an avalanche of words readying themselves to tumble out of his mouth. Thankfully, his good sense overrides the impulse. It wouldn’t move Leia in any case. But everything he knows about Poe Dameron—which isn’t much, if he’s being honest, save the same tales you hear about all hot-shot pilots—suggests he’s dedicated to the cause and empathetic in the extreme. You don’t burn your career to the ground out of anything but the highest sense of duty. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t need Leia to put pressure on him to agree. “You’re a brilliant and generous leader, Leia.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now stop tying up my comm with your nerf-brained schemes. I’ll send a burst when he’s on his way.”

_So I’m right,_ he thinks, pleased that Leia, too, presupposes he’ll be helping Lando as a matter of course. _Interesting_.

*

Poe Dameron hops down from the cockpit of his ship, already familiar and casual and dashing in a way that makes Lando wonder how he’s only known for his piloting. Or, at least, that’s all _Lando_ knows him for. Usually gossip around campus is a little more… salacious when it concerns good-looking young hero types. “You know, after I joined the Resistance, I never thought I’d see a day like today.”

“And what sort of day would that be?” Lando can’t help but smile at him a little, instantly charmed.

“The Republic asking _me_ for help,” he replies, laughing, his eyes lit up with amusement. He pulls off his helmet—because of course he’d flown himself, _of course_ —tucks the thing under his arm, and holds out his hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’m Poe Dameron.”

“Likewise,” Lando replies, shaking the hand in question. It’s not very difficult to note the warm, firm grip. “Lando Calrissian at—”

“Oh, I know who you are, sir.” Tossing the helmet back into the open cockpit of the unmarked and unremarkable two-seater, he rubs at the back of his neck. Turning his attention briefly to the droid attendant waiting to take custody of said two-seater, he adds, “I believe you might’ve known my mom during the Rebellion. Not to mention your exploits are…” When he turns, Lando notes a flush across the bridge of his nose, a fragile warmth in his eyes—perhaps at the mention of his mother. “Well, it’s an honor anyway. And some of your maneuvers have saved my a… ah—my skin as well. On maybe more than one occasion.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lando murmurs, momentarily frozen by Poe’s tumble of words. His brow furrows as he gestures toward the landspeeder waiting across the spaceport for them, his mind finally catching up with what Poe’s actually said. “Your mother?”

“Shara Bey, sir.”

“Sha—oh.” He laughs, deep and joyful. “No kidding?” Now that he looks at Poe, really looks at him, he sees the resemblance. There’s no mistaking it. “Dameron, eh? So she ended up with that scoundrel after all?”

He nods, pleased, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. His cheeks go just that much pinker and he shoves his fingers through his hair to loosen the tight helmet his hair has become. It becomes that much clearer once he’s done that he’s Lieutenant Bey’s son. There’s no mistaking curls like that. “She did indeed.”

“He’s a lucky man.”

A wistful smile softens Poe’s features. “He’d agree with you, I’m sure,” he says. Then, dragging his hands down his thighs and clapping them together, he adds, “But I’m not here to bore you with family history.” His face hardens, growing serious and contemplative. “General Organa mentioned you were having problems with your simulations?”

“You could say that,” Lando says. As they reach the speeder, he leans toward the door, fingers curling around the frame, “if you were so inclined.” Pulling the door open, he gestures for Poe to step inside.

Poe bends forward, peering at the hood, the windshield, and all along the sides and interior. He whistles high and sharp and smooths his hand over the sparkling chromium accents, the bright depth of the blue paint across the rest of it, shining multihued under the clear, sunny sky. “Haven’t had much cause to drive one of these in a long time.” Those fingers tap out a jaunty rhythm against the frame and even though Lando happens to like driving this speeder, he concedes to himself that he’s not sure he’d mind if Poe took over.

If only for a little while.

“Why don’t you go on ahead then?” Lando suggests, the hand not holding the door open curving around Poe’s shoulder blade. His fingers skim lightly, not quite touching, but Poe’s eyes widen all the same and his mouth stretches into another smile, a little shy, a little disbelieving.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” Lando replies. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t.”

Poe only hesitates for a beat before sliding into the speeder, hands braced on either side of him as he scoots toward the driver’s side. Gripping the yoke, he taps his fingers, his shoulders tensing as he cracks his neck. “Hey, there,” he says, speaking to the thing like she’s a person. Lando bites back a laugh and forgets all about how he’s done the same thing on too many occasions to count.

“Head that way,” he says instead, pointing vaguely toward their destination. “I’ll let you know where to turn.”

*

“So,” Poe says, clearing his throat. He squints at the main building, a squat, ugly block with no particular flair in the design nor artistry in the architecture. “I suppose it ought to be a comfort to know the campus here looks exactly like the one I attended. All the way on the other side of the Republic. And… more years ago than I care to think about.”

“Uh huh,” Lando replies, guiding him toward the building. One hand hovers near Poe’s lower back. A hand that Lando snatches back before Poe or anyone else can see. A passing student peers curiously at the pair of them, blushing and smiling at Poe. Poe who, when Lando looks at him, doesn’t even seem to notice, his attention focused on the pad he’s busy freeing from his jacket. “I don’t find that comforting at all.”

“Well,” Poe says, nose wrinkling, “they always did say I was an optimist, I guess.”

*

“When you said it was a problem with the simulators, you might have told me you were lying through your teeth. That’s what I’m getting from this,” Poe says, shaking his head at the derelict cockpit standing in the middle of the room. He circles the thing, palm drifting over its body as he peeks up into the cockpit proper and down under the carriage. Crouching, hand now pressed against the underside, he looks up at Lando. “We had better equipment back _home_. When I was a _kid_. And it sure as hell wasn’t wartime then.” He frowns and knocks at the carriage, an unhappy thud his only answer.

“You don’t gotta tell me.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Yup.”

Poe looks up again, upper lip hitching in disbelief and disdain. His nose crinkles as he pushes himself to his feet. But when he speaks, he sounds… what did he say people called him? An optimist? If he’s not, he plays the part to perfection. “Well, okay, then. We’re doing this,” he says, like it’ll be the easiest thing in the world now that he’s made his decision, like the world will rearrange itself according to Poe’s whims. And maybe it will? Who’s Lando to say otherwise.

“Tomorrow,” Lando says, before Poe gets any gung-ho ideas about starting right this minute. He seems the type.

Reluctant, Poe agrees, nodding distractedly. “Tomorrow then.”

*

Lando stands outside the sim’s cockpit, tries to anticipate each shift in the hydraulics holding it aloft, wonders what’s going on inside the thing. He wishes he’d been able to call Lieutenant Hennse in to run an analysis in the adjacent lab, but she’d been busy and he’d only been given permission to do this so long as it didn’t interfere with anyone else’s work.

A yawn catches him by surprise and he lifts his arm reflexively, covering his mouth with the back of his wrist even though there’s no one else around to notice.

And there’s no one around to notice because Poe’s one of those very rare, very terrible pilots who naturally rise with the dawn no matter how late they’d gone to bed, no matter how tired they are. It’s the only explanation for why he’d insisted they get started first thing in the morning.

_“You ever hear of space lag?” Lando had asked as Poe’d approached Lando’s speeder out in front of Poe’s hotel. “I gave you the grand tour yesterday afternoon just so you wouldn’t be pressed for time today. You could’ve relaxed a little first.”_

_“I fly so often, I don’t think my body remembers what space lag is,” he’d replied, sipping from a cup of caf. Bending forward, he’d held out his other hand, offering Lando a second cup. “But hey, I brought a present. Least I could do, right?”_

_He’d smiled innocently, so relentlessly cheerful that Lando had to take the caf—and thereby concede defeat, give up his right to complain. You don’t take a man’s peace offering and keep berating him for holding to unreasonable hours._

_Well, mostly. “The sun’s not even up yet.”_

_“Sure it is,” Poe’d said, sketching a line that parallels the horizon. The far off horizon. The far off horizon that is hidden by road and hills and, that’s right, every building in the city. “I see all sorts of yellow over that way. Very sunny.”_

_“Right.”_

He supposes now he could have spooled up Hennse’s console himself, but that hadn’t felt like it kept with the spirit of the agreement he’d made with the brass either. Getting a visual on what Poe’s doing in there would’ve crunched on a fair bit of resources. And that counts as interference in Lando’s book. And it’s not like he’s gotta grade the man on his efforts in there. The only reason he’d do it is out of curiosity. And curiosity is a poor reason to do anything. Curiosity has gotten Lando into plenty of trouble over the years.

He turns, nothing but walls of white and the pneumatic huff of the motors in the sim to keep him company. Stretching, fighting back another yawn, he crosses his arms. Continues to wait. Begins to realize Poe’s probably going through _all_ the scenarios and wonders how long that’ll take. It’s already been—there’s no chronometer on the wall, so he has to dig in his belt for his pocket chronometer—about thirty minutes.

_We’re gonna be here all day_.

But almost as soon as he thinks that, the sim hums and slows and rattles to a stop. The door wings up as Poe unbuckles the harness, his hands moving with practiced ease. “I can tell you one thing,” he calls, a little loud as he calls from inside. “You weren’t wrong about these sims.”

“That’s a relief.”

Poe twists to look at him, a watered down look of disapproval crossing his face, there and gone and replaced with amusement. Pushing himself to his feet, he throws one leg over the side, grips the cockpit, throws his other leg over, and hops down. He ignores the ladder completely.

“What?” Lando asks, shrugging. “I don’t mind being right.”

Poe’s tongue clicks and he sucks at his bottom lip. “Starkiller did that big of a number on the academies?” he asks, hesitant, like he hadn’t really thought about it before. And maybe he hasn’t had to. They have their own issues out there past the fringes of Republic space. Why would they consider the finer points of the impact the Hosnian system’s destruction had had on the Republic’s citizens? They may fight for them, but the Resistance is something else entirely now out there on its own. With more immediate concerns than the loss of so many of the people charged with training the next generation of leaders and guardians. When you’re losing your own people, losing a war, there’s not much room for anything else.

“The Republic put all its resources into the training facilities in the Hosnian system. And now there’re not enough instructors to go around after… well,” Lando says. “Why do you think I’m here?”

The way Poe smiles at Lando, like Poe can think of a thousand reasons and every one of them as noble as the last. That does something funny to Lando’s insides. Something that Lando very much doesn’t appreciate. The way that certainty slides so seamlessly into sympathy? No, empathy? Lando likes it even less. “They could do worse than learn from you,” Poe says, plain in his compliment, so much so that discomfort settles in Lando’s gut. “But why don’t we see about upgrading these sims anyway? Give you guys a leg up? If we fail again out there, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Lando wants to argue, but he’s not in the business of assigning or redistributing blame. Maybe the Resistance is partially at fault for what happened. Still, it doesn’t sit right with Lando that Poe would word it that way, not even hesitating to implicate himself. “You’ve been watching too many talking heads on the Holonet.”

Grim humor glints dark in his eyes. “So they are blaming us, huh? Guess Finn’s gonna owe me his extra ration chit when I get back.”

_Who’s Finn,_ Lando doesn’t ask. Lando also doesn’t apologize, though he wants to. He hadn’t intended to imply blame, not out loud. Of all people, he should know better.

*

Lando hangs in the doorway of the room he’d commandeered for Poe, watching as the man strides across the room toward the only other occupant. “No, no,” Poe says, already pointing at the holographic display the Rodian programmer is sitting at. “They’re faster than that now.” Once he reaches the Rodian in question, he slices his hand through the air in dubious illustration. “They arc wide, though. And… I don’t know. Skid?” Sighing heavily, he scrubs at his face. “Does that even make sense?”

The Rodian looks up at him, antennae twitching. From Lando’s vantage point, he can only see one side of the Rodian’s snout screw up and flatten out, but from the look of it—maybe it doesn’t make sense.

Poe sighs again. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, Zeeri.”

Lando knocks on the inside of the door, startling both Poe and the programmer. Poe shifts, smiling guiltily at Lando, and fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “General Calrissian.”

“You _can_ just call me Lando, you know.” He frowns, not exactly pleased with the distance his rank generates. If he’d known it would be this isolating, he’d have refused it on the spot. If he’d known people would still be calling him general thirty years past the moment it last actually mattered… he’d have laughed, too.

And if he’d known a good-looking young man would use it as a sign of respect, he’d probably still laugh. And feel a little bad about it. Respect is great and all, but respect isn’t much _fun_.

“I, uh—sure.” Scratching at his ear, Poe shrugs. “I can do that. Lando.”

It’s not the smoothest transition Lando’s ever seen, but Lando’s not sure he’d want smoother. When you’ve devoted so much of your career, your life, to maintaining a certain level of it, seeing it in others doesn’t have nearly the same impact. The fact that Poe is so unrepentantly _genuine_ , well. In Lando’s experience, that’s a unique and mysterious thing.

“None of this ‘sir’ business either,” Lando adds, wagging his finger in warning.

Poe’s exhale sounds more like an amused laugh than a breath and that appeals to Lando, too, the huffy self-deprecation of it. Like he knows his weaknesses and would rather play to them than ever hide them, take away their power through admitting to them. “I’ll try,” he says, “but no promises. Fair?”

“Fair.” Lando concedes with a gentlemanly tilt of his head.

“Good,” Poe says, inviting Lando in with a turn of his body, a gesture of his hand. “We’re getting closer. Zeeri here has already programmed in a few scenarios that oughta give these kids a better idea of what they might be facing.”

Lando steps closer, peers down at the incomprehensibleness taking place on Zeeri’s computer. “Already?”

“Yeah. We’re just trying to tweak the TIE fighter reactions. The times are too slow and they’re too cumbersome. The newer models are more fluid.”

“And you know this from experience?”

Poe grins, bouncing on his toes. “Got to fly one once.”

Lando’s eyebrow creeps up his forehead. “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,” he says, distracted by the fact that he’s had cause to _fly a TIE fighter_. How does that even happen?

“Sure, maybe over—” Poe’s voice strangles itself and he turns his head to cough into his elbow. His cheeks go red and when he recovers from his fit, he straightens and finds a stance that approaches parade rest. “Excuse me. That was…”

Zeeri peers up, curious, but only dares a tiny, private smile before focusing their attention fully onto the keyboard in front of them.

It’s hard for Lando to keep his features in line, to stop his mouth from stretching into one of those sunny smiles he’s known for. The one that gets him into as much trouble as it gets him out of. Somehow, he gets the feeling it wouldn’t put Poe at ease. Even if Lando is very much within his milieu all of a sudden. In fact, Lando couldn’t be happier.

“That was completely… uh. Inappropriate.” Poe doesn’t scuff his boots, but from Lando’s side of things, it looks like he’s only just avoided doing so. “I apologize.”

Lando nods, pursing his lips together. “Hey, Zeer,” he says, “think you can spare the commander for a moment?”

“Yes, sir,” Zeeri replies, tripping over those two words.

He’s about three minutes from becoming the major source of grist for the gossip mill all over campus. Under normal circumstances, he’d want to savor those last moments of calm.

Instead… instead, he can’t shuffle Poe out the door quickly enough. Even if that means Zeeri will be that much quicker on the comm.

“Sir,” Poe says, once they’re in the relative privacy of the hallway, serious and somber and guilty around the eyes in a way that Lando doesn’t approve of. Not for one damned minute. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Lando replies, crossing his arms. Taking the moment into his hands, he reshapes it. “I was rather hoping you’d finish that invitation you were in the middle of offering.”

“Sir?”

“Lando.” _I’m not your commanding officer_. _I’m not anyone’s commanding officer._

“Right.” Poe’s throat clicks as he swallows. He licks his lips. “Lando.”

Lando waits, willing himself to have the patience to keep his tongue held. _Come on,_ he thinks. _I’m not gonna bite or shut you down or laugh in your face._

“I—” He bites his lip and stares at Lando’s boots. “—was wondering if you’d want to get drinks? Later tonight.”

“Wonderful,” Lando says, stomach twisting in uncharacteristic anticipation. He doesn’t want to say his time at the academy has been boring—or lonely—but it’d be a lie to say he’s found anything or anyone of much interest here. Stepping toward Poe, he places one hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t flatter himself that this is anything more than drinks—and dinner, Lando decides, because he never does anything by halves, not when there’s intriguing company to be had—but, well. It’ll make for a nice change of pace. “What do you say I pick you up at 19:00?”

“Sounds good,” Poe replies, a little weak, like his qualms might be having qualms.

_You’ve got nothing to worry about, Poe Dameron_ , Lando thinks, projecting as much of that thought as possible to the man in question. Leaning forward, just a little bit, he offers Poe a steady gaze and a certain squeeze, his thumb brushing the jut of Poe’s collarbone. “And how do you feel about crawlfish?”

Poe’s features shift immediately, softening into something like longing and remembrance. “Haven’t had it in years,” he admits. “Mom and I used to fish at the spring pools near our house for it. You’ve got crawlfish here?”

“ _I_ don’t,” Lando says, inordinately pleased that luck has graced him with her charms once again, “but I know a place that does.”

“Okay,” Poe says, relief filtering into his voice, like now that the decision’s been made, he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. Straightening, he smiles, more at ease. “I should probably—but thank you.” The smile grows, fed by an enthusiasm Poe can’t quite quell, assuming he’s trying to. “You’re something else, anyone ever tell you that?”

Lando winks and releases Poe from his grip. Infected by Poe’s newfound joy, he can’t help preening. _Guess you still got it, old man_. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No,” Poe says, stepping toward the door leading back to the programmer’s lab. He looks back once, almost sly. “I don’t think I would either.”

Lando had obviously made the right decision here. When a man compliments you like that, the very least you can do is take him out to dinner. Lifting two of his fingers to his forehead, he says, “See you at 19:00, hot shot.”

“I should be getting back. I’m sure you have… things. To do.” Poe bites back a pleased, if frozen, smile and disappears into the lab, shaking his head all the while. He might snicker and murmur ‘hot-shot’ to himself with derision as he goes, but Lando pretends he doesn’t hear it.

Fishing his comm from his pocket, Lando whistles. When he’d made the call to Leia, he hadn’t expected _this_ —still isn’t sure he should inspect the finer details of it for fear of destroying the good energy in the universe that had made it possible. You can’t hold things too closely, that’s just asking for them to be taken away. But the equally strong urge to ensure perfection for the night ahead niggles at him. Why _not_ do everything possible to cultivate an enjoyable evening for his companion?

Finding a quiet, out of the way, no students will interrupt him here alcove, he figures he can’t hurt things too badly if he calls the restaurant. Making a reservation is sensible. Everyone does it.

“Thank you for calling _Massassi_ , how may I help you?”

“I’d like to make a reservation,” Lando replies, feeling every sort of foolish out there. “For 19:30.”

“Of course, sir. Can I take your name for the reservation?”

“Calrissian,” he replies. A pause, then he continues. “Tell me, is a table by the spring pools available by any chance?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you,” Lando replies, not allowing himself to feel relief about that fact. The spring pools are a popular spot anyway, but Lando gets the impression that they might matter more to Poe than they would to your run-of-the-mill diner on a planet far, far away from Yavin 4. Lando’s not sure what he’d have done if there hadn’t been one open. Probably nothing. But he’s glad he doesn’t have to find out.

“Of course, sir. We look forward to seeing you.”

_Unbelievable,_ Lando thinks. _What the hell are you doing, Calrissian?_

_Trying to show my appreciation to the man doing me a huge favor,_ he tells himself, _and asked if I wanted to get_ drinks _. I’m doing the smart thing_.

That thought carries him through the next couple of hours, but as the afternoon creeps closer to 19:00, he begins to wonder whether he’s just setting himself up for a fall. Drinks don’t always mean what drinks usually mean. Drinks don’t mean Poe’s interested.

*

“ _Massassi_?” Poe asks, peering at the restaurant’s name, projected in clean, silvered color against the front of the brushed metal building. He arches his eyebrow and looks down at himself then back up at the lettering. “I guess I should’ve packed something a little more formal to wear.”

“No, you look fine,” Lando answers, gaze flicking over the clothing in question. He does, in fact, look better than fine, garbed in a tasteful black tunic and coordinated slacks. But what really surprises Lando about it, he has to admit, is how tailored they are to Poe’s frame, not a wrinkle in the fabric anywhere to suggest it had ever done anything but fit him perfectly. “It’s not as serious as the veneer suggests.”

“So long as you’re okay with it, I suppose,” Poe says, charmingly dubious as he rolls his shoulders. He speaks so simply that Lando, always on the lookout for interesting innuendo, can’t but respond with equal honesty.

“If you looked at this situation with any objectivity whatsoever, you wouldn’t have to ask that question.”

Lando’s hand lifts to the small of Poe’s back, hovering, not quite coming into contact as they enter the establishment. The warmth Poe generates makes Lando want to press in closer, but he refrains.

“Is that so?” Poe asks, turning his head to speak into Lando’s ear. On purpose. Lando is willing to hazard that guess.

Lando, in challenge, finally settles his hand against Poe’s back, the only thing between them the soft, dark fabric of Poe’s shirt. Heat leeches into his palm. His fingers itch to curl into the smooth line of his tunic. “Yes.”

Poe nods at the host waiting to greet them rather than respond. Dressed in plum-colored robes, he smiles at them and glances down at his pad. He takes their names and informs them it’ll only be a couple of minutes. Only then does Poe’s attention turn back to Lando. “Most people would just say ‘you look nice.’”

“Is that what you want?” Lando asks, having more fun than he’s had in a long time. Whatever uncertainty he’s found in the hours since they’d met up in the lab, Poe’d found the opposite.

“No,” he answers, light and teasing, “I happen to like insults to my objectivity. Call it a personality flaw.”

“Right.”

Before Lando has to answer more fully, a waiter in a utilitarian uniform of brown and tan greets them, indicating with flicking fingers that they should follow. He leads them between a handful of tables full of people chatting, animated, and out of a side door. Trees shade the eating area and every time a gust of wind picks up, a few leaves fall and hit an invisible shield that gently shuttles them toward the perimeter.

“They’re very committed to their theme,” Poe says, eyes glued on the canopy.

“You’ve been to Yavin Four, sir?” the waiter asks, picking the perfect moment to build a rapport with his patrons.

“Born and raised.”

“How wonderful,” the waiter says, and he’s good enough that Lando can’t tell whether he truly feels that way or not. “Our chef is from there.”

“Oh?” Poe asks, and Lando can tell that Poe is, if nothing else, intrigued by this development.

“Mmm. She is always speaking of the temples there and how they are the most beautiful in the galaxy. Does she speak the truth?”

Poe’s gaze sparkles with poorly suppressed mirth as it settles on Lando’s face. “I would say so,” he says, eyes never losing their quarry. “But I suppose my opinion is no more _objective_ than hers.”

Lando thwaps him on the arm and clears his throat to keep himself from snickering. Poe just nudges him back, shrugging innocently. “What?” he mouths, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“And here we are,” the waiter says, unaware of the exchange that had taken place behind his back. He turns and bows his head. “I hope it is satisfactory.”

Poe’s attention lights on the nearby pool, its surface smooth enough to reflect the trees overhead. “More than satisfactory,” he says. “Thank you.”

The waiter inclines his head again, a hint of pride evident in his eyes. “I’ll be back shortly.”

As he walks away, Lando steps forward to pull Poe’s chair out for him. He sits and leans forward, waiting just long enough for Lando to sit before he whistles, quiet. For Lando alone. “You didn’t have to go this far out of your way for me.”

“It was no hardship, I assure you.”

“If you say so.”

Lando taps at the table, a projection of the menu sliding up in front of both his own and Poe’s side of the table. Lando watches as Poe scans it, intent, eventually lighting up over one item in particular. “Oh, you are good,” Poe says, impressed, tapping the screen with decisiveness. The menu disappears and he crosses his arms on the tabletop.

“I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t,” Lando replies. He quickly makes his own selection. “And I wouldn’t be very good company if that was the case.”

Poe tilts his head, concessionary and dubious all at once. How he manages that, Lando can’t say, but it serves to put a point on the conversation, one that Lando’s not sure how to pivot from. They sit in silence, more awkward than Lando would like. _So much for being good_.

Scratching at his arm, Poe rolls his eyes good-naturedly, maybe a little nervous. “How about that local sports team, huh?”

“Yeah,” Lando says, laughing. “They’re great this year, aren’t they?”

“I—uh, yeah,” Poe says, his eyes focusing on the spring pool. For how intent his eyes are, his smile is much more of a sketch, barely there. Sighing, he speaks again. “Listen, there’s something I have to tell you. Zeeri managed to program another four scenarios after you left. Gotta say, this place might be behind the times, but their suite of extrapolation programs is top notch. Made it pretty easy, I guess. At least according to Zeeri. Something about, well… I’m not sure actually. I’m just a pilot.”

“That’s good news,” Lando replies, but if it’s good, why is his stomach sinking, his appetite lost to the melancholy shroud that has descended upon the table.

“Zeeri also says they’ll be able to come up with a lot more, too, now that they have the basic patterns isolated. Your people will be shooting down TIE fighters easy once you’re done with them and a few other things to boot.”

“That, ah… is what we wanted.” Lando’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. _What are you getting at?_

“Yes. It is.” Poe lifts his hands, slipping one hand into the opposite cuff of his shirt, retrieving a chit. “I wrote an analysis of every First Order tactic I could think of.” It clacks as he places it on the table, sliding it toward Lando with one finger. “You’re not going to hurt for simulations much longer.”

Plucking the small, metal rectangle from the table, Lando places it in his shirt pocket, the sharp keenness of intuition slicing at him “You’re going back,” he says, understanding too quickly, too well.

“At the end of the week,” Poe says. “I know the general gave me more time than that, but…”

Lando swallows. “But duty calls?”

Poe nods. “That’s why I—” He looks away again. “I didn’t want to lie to you and I want nothing more than to take advantage of the general’s generosity all things considered, but I can’t justify it. Not when my team could be risking their lives without me there to take up the slack.”

“I understand.” And, the worst part is, Lando does. He gets that kind of dedication. It’s the same dedication that keeps him here despite everything. He tries to be heartened by Poe’s insistence that he wants to stay. “When are you going?”

“A couple of days. I’d like to test it with some of your students first.”

“That can be arranged.” Lando appreciates how steady his voice stays. At least that’s going the way he wants.

The waiter returns with their meals. He finds it borderline amusing that both he and Poe had chosen the crawlfish stew. “Excuse me, sir,” he says to Poe. Once he has Poe’s attention, he lowers his voice even more. “The chef made a few alterations to the dish that she believes you will find acceptable, but if it’s not to your taste, she will happily replace it.”

Lando peers down into Poe’s bowl and doesn’t notice anything different about it. Except… the surface looks a little slicker than Lando’s, a few places forming small puddles of gleaming liquid. Curious, Lando searches Poe’s face, and only sees happiness there, few signs of distress lingering despite the absolute dismay he’d shown at sharing his news.

“ _Bellitha_ oil?” Poe asks, his full attention on the waiter.

The waiter nods quickly, solicitous. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you tell her thank you for me?”

“Of course, sir.”

Poe dips his spoon into the stew, mixing the oil into the savory sauce with gusto. “ _Bellitha_ oil,” he says, anticipating Lando’s question, “is very good, but most people who weren’t born on Yavin Four have an aversion to it. Minor allergic reactions, but annoying all the same.”

“Why?” Lando asks, itching to try it just because it’s forbidden to him, but as he doesn’t want to develop an actual itch—or worse, he reins in that particular impulse.

Poe shrugs. “Not sure. It’s not high on the list of things people come to Yavin Four to study, you know? I’ve known a few people and heard of a lot more who claim it’s worth the trouble of taking a cocktail of allergen suppressants to eat it, but I don’t know how true that is.”

“Huh,” Lando says, filing away the oil’s name for later. _Bellitha_ oil. _Bellitha_. “Maybe next time.”

“Why am I not surprised you’d say that?”

“Tell you what,” Lando says instead of answering, “next time I see you, I’m trying this _bellitha_ oil.”

“Is that a promise?” His gaze flattens, goes guarded as it searches Lando’s face. Lando doesn’t think Poe wants confirmation about the _bellitha_ oil.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he says, even though he has no idea how he’s supposed to keep this promise. But he’ll find a way. The Republic won’t always need his help. _You could be just as useful to the Resistance. And your time with the Rebellion… there was nothing better than that._

*

“Do you ever miss it?” Poe asks, poking at his pad, Leoth’s scores emblazoned in red across the surface. Lando hadn’t told Leoth that Poe Dameron would be attending this particular session, didn’t want to skew the data, but he must’ve realized something was up because he’d performed slightly better than usual.

_Or maybe he’d just got lucky._

Lando studiously avoids peering over his shoulder to get a clearer view of Poe’s analysis. “Miss what?”

Poe doesn’t answer, humming thoughtfully, distracted by whatever he sees on the screen. Or seeming so. Still, Lando fills in the blanks pretty well. _Miss what,_ he thinks. _The cause?_

“I do,” he says, clapping Poe on the bicep, squeezing lightly. “We did a lot of good back then. And it wasn’t all just trying to pick up the pieces.” _Can’t say I’ve ever been too good at clean-up_.

Poe looks back at him, eyes lifting to meet his. His lips part and he seems like he’s going to say something, but instead his mouth shuts and he returns to the pad. Again. Lando would knock it out of his hand if he were the type. Instead, he ponders what Poe’s said and what he doesn’t say.

_Why’d you ask, Poe?_

No answer greets him; it’ll take a long time before any answer makes sense at all and when he realizes… he’s maybe not always the smartest man in the room.

*

“Thank you,” Poe says, shifting back and forth. His ship stands ready for departure behind him, his helmet tucked under his arm like it was made to be there. Around them, beings trickle in an array of directions, a handful of larger ships arrayed around them, awaiting for departures of their own.

“It’s usually not the guy doing the favor that offers their thanks,” Lando says, a brittle, brilliant smile on his mouth. A conman’s smile. He’s not ready for Poe to leave and he can’t even say why and he sure as hell can’t let Poe see it. The only thing Lando knows is he’s a damned good pilot and that he likes _bellitha_ oil and that he prioritizes duty above all else.

“Well, I’m not just any guy,” Poe says, forcing Lando’s attention back to front and center.

_No, you’re not_.

“Anyway,” Poe continues, “I didn’t exactly leave Republic space with the best of memories last time.” The toe of his boot scuffs at the ground, kicks at a loose pebble that has somehow worked its way onto the otherwise pristine duracrete. “I’m glad I could replace them with something better.”

“Sure,” Lando says, already wistful as he wonders what else could he have learned with another week’s worth of time.

When Lando says nothing more—even though there’s too much unsaid—Poe smiles. “Look me up sometime, yeah?” His attention drifts to the sky. And Lando’s follows. Clouds waft across the bright blueness of it, punctuated by sparkling silver dots, other transports entering and leaving the spaceport. “When you’re not training the next generation of Republic pilots, that is.”

“You can count on it.”

Poe smirks, brushing his hair off of his forehead before jamming his helmet onto his head. His body leans forward for one moment, an almost step, before he turns, abrupt, climbs the ladder into the cockpit of his ship. “See you around, Lando Calrissian,” he lobs at Lando over his shoulder.

Lando doesn’t watch Poe complete pre-flight checks, doesn’t watch the engines fire up—though the heat of it sears at the back of his neck as he walks away. He doesn’t watch the shoddy thing as the repulsorlifts turn on. He doesn’t watch it lift off. And he certainly doesn’t turn to watch it when it’s just a glimmer of metal in the sky.

No, he absolutely doesn’t do that.

*

“Sir?” Lieutenant Hennse asks. “General?”

“Yeah?” Lando straightens, adjusting his shirt, blinks a couple of times. He glances around his office, eyes honing in on the chronometer. How long had he been daydreaming? “Lieutenant Hennse. What can I do for you?”

She holds out a pad. “The latest test scores, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

She nods, backing toward the door. “You’re welcome, sir.”

After a long moment, he swipes at the thing, reviving it from low-power mode. Here it’ll be. Proof of his and Poe’s success. Or proof of his failure. It would be easy to ignore it for the time being. And that thought is the only thing that convinces him to actually read the screen.

Every last one of his students have shown an improvement. They’ve shown improvements despite Lando not doing anything any differently in the classroom. Even Leoth is up in his raw scores, going from 64 to 79. That’s… passable. That’s ‘you can go out in the field for the Republic’ scores. That’s a pilot’s score.

It’s still not _good_ exactly, but it’s getting there and that’s more than Lando could say before.

It proves one thing, though.

Lando’s not nearly as vital to this organization as he’d believed.

That fact comes as more of a relief than he’d have expected given his ego, his desire for perfection.

_Huh_.

*

Lando pulls up his personal comm traffic, sifts through important and unimportant messages alike. His attention lingers on an unobstrusive little thing, an anonymized address and no subject.

He opens it first.

_I should’ve told you while I was there how much I enjoyed spending time with you. I’m sorry I didn’t. – P_

As far as unexpected missiles go, a double-encrypted declaration of—something isn’t the worst thing he could be hit with. But Lando’s a believer in signs. The same day he finds out his charges don’t need him, he gets this. That’s gotta be the universe’s way of telling him something, right?

Either way, he decides, Leia sure as hell is gonna be in for a surprise when she finds out what he plans to do next.

But he hopes—really hopes, more than he ought to—that Poe’s the one who’s gonna be surprised.

*

Poe jogs across the duracrete runway, obvious in his orange flight suit, dark curls bouncing across his forehead. The whole trip, Lando hadn’t been sure he’d made the right decision, but upon seeing Poe, he revises his assessment.

Taking so long to come had been the wrong decision. Just seeing again makes rightness slide in alongside his bones, a layer of certainty that strengthens him from the inside out.

“Hey,” Poe says, breathing a little heavy, a light sheen of sweat across his forehead, his skin pink from the sun. There’s no suppressing the happiness on his face, evident despite the serious tenor of his voice. “Good of you to join us. Why don’t I show you to your quarters?”

*

“When General Organa told me you were coming,” Poe says, looking back at Lando as he leads the way through corridor after winding corridor He smiles so wide now that it’s gotta hurt. “I scrounged up some crawlfish.”

“Did you?”

“Yep.” He stops near the end of one hallway—though Lando can’t imagine what makes this one different than all the others. Clapping Lando on the shoulder, he adds, mock serious, “And I hope you’re ready for that allergy suppressant.”

“Oh, I’m more than ready.” Taking Poe’s hand, he tugs Poe closer. Might as well take advantage of the privacy, even if only in this small way. Poe very studiously ignores this in favor of speaking again.

“Good,” he says, “because I’m gonna show you what real crawlfish stew tastes like. No offense to that chef at _Massassi_. She’s good, but she’s not secret friend-of-the-family recipe good. She’s not _me_ good.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you don’t even care.” Poe tries to look nonplussed and tries even harder to disapprove, but the only thing he gets across is joy, the same as Lando feels. And probably he doesn’t conceal much better than Poe does.

“I do care,” Lando says, pulling Poe into a hug. “But I’m rather more happy to see you at the moment.”

Poe doesn’t exactly melt against Lando, but he does relax, the tension in his shoulders softening to something more malleable. Lando’s hand drifts up Poe’s spine and settles against his neck. “It’s good to see you,” Poe admits, his words ghosting against Lando’s neck. “How long are you staying?”

“Thought I’d stick around a while,” Lando says. “Put some of that patriotism to use for the Resistance.”

“General Organa will be glad to hear that.”

_I very much doubt that_ , Lando thinks, amused. He grips Poe by the shoulders, pushes him to arm’s length, but no further, uninterested in letting go completely. “And what does Poe Dameron think?”

Poe huffs a thoughtful breath. And takes his sweet time answering.

“Poe Dameron thinks he’s lucky to have you here.” His lips quirk into a brief smile. “And he thinks he’s happy to have someone to help train his new recruits.”

“Now wait a minute. I never signed up for that,” Lando answers, falsely insistent. He lets go of Poe and raises his hands to shield himself.

“Hey, you’ve got all that experience now. Gotta pull your weight where it’s needed most, Lando. You remember what it was like. I promise the people we’ve got here know more than that Leoth guy ever did.”

“That’s not a high bar to cross.”

“Well, gotta entice you somehow,” Poe says, tapping thoughtfully at his mouth, which is plenty enticing as far as Lando’s concerned. “I was thinking you could show Rey a thing or two about the _Falcon_ , but if you’re not interested…”

“I’m already enticed.” Not that the _Falcon_ doesn’t appeal to him, too, but. _But_. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“If that’s all it takes…” Poe rubs at the back of his neck and thrusts out his hand, almost a replay of their first meeting. “Welcome back, General.”

_That doesn’t sound quite so bad coming out of his mouth._

_You might make it as a general yet, Calrissian_.

Lando can’t help it. He looks both ways down the hallway, blessedly empty, and reaches for Poe’s hand. Pulls him forward. Dares to lift one hand to curve around the line of Poe’s jaw. His thumb caresses the not-quite smooth, not yet scratchy skin there. He gives Poe time to pull away, but Poe does the opposite.

His eyes close.

He leans in.

And before Lando can complete the act he’d started, Poe does it for him. His lips, unlike his jaw, betrays nothing but smoothness. They taste of mint, the flavor mingling in his senses with the scent of exhaust and sunlight that strikes Lando when they part.

“Sorry,” Poe says, breathing a little heavy, “I’ve never been good at waiting.”

_That’s okay_ , Lando thinks. _I’ve done plenty enough of that for the both of us._ And if Poe huffs and punches Lando lightly on the shoulder, like maybe he’d heard the unspoken thought, well. Lando can’t blame him. In fact, Lando intends to do everything he can to make it up to Poe—who might not find it necessary, but Lando does. This is where he belongs. It’s his own fault that he hadn’t let himself realize it until Poe came along. For that, he owes Poe.

And never has he found himself so happy to have a debt to settle.


End file.
